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“No! What do you think you’re doing with that?” I watch in horror as he lowers the blade a little at a time. The light glints off it, blinding me, but I can’t take my eyes off it.
He sounds genuinely happy when he laughs. “Wait and see, bitch.” The blade touches the right side of my chest above my bruised nipple.
Then it presses. Harder. Until blood seeps from under it.
Instinct must be what freezes me solid—he could stab me for real if I keep bucking up and down. All I can do is watch in shock as he drags the blade from right to left, splitting the skin open, leaving a dark red line behind it.
I don’t beg or plead this time.
All I can do is scream—loud, long, high-pitched—while I fight like I’ve never fought in my life. My shoulders, my arms, my wrists feel like they’re going to break. My feet pound the table, and my head swings back and forth. He’s going to slice me open. I can’t let him do this, and nobody’s coming to help me.
“That’s right.” He’s laughing softly, jerking himself off, raising the knife again. “Keep fighting, bitch. I’m just getting started. We’ll see how long before you give up.”
4
Lucian
Chloe’s long gone, having done her job admirably as always. When it comes to the regular employees—my dancers, for instance—nothing but the best will do. Still, some of them manage to stand out from the crowd either thanks to looks or talent. Chloe has both.
Though she wasn’t enough to get me out of my head. I’m no closer to forgetting that girl in the basement than I was before. She’s like an itch deep under my skin, one I could scratch until I draw blood but be no closer to satisfying.
At this rate, I’d bleed to death, but I wouldn’t be rid of her. The way she stood here, frank and brave. I’m no pushover, and I lost count a long time ago of the number of girls I’ve reduced to tears in this very office.
Not her. Not Rowan.
Goddammit.
You know you can’t do this. I’ve been a hard-ass all these years, insisting on strict adherence to the rules. I’ve been merciless when it comes to firing employees for even the slightest offense.
Years ago, I heard an anecdote relating to human psychology. It had to do with the decline of a neighborhood stemming from a single broken window. That’s all it takes to get the ball rolling. If that window goes unfixed, eventually, there’ll be another. A neighbor will neglect to mow their lawn, another will stop picking up after their dog.
I took it to heart. It’s how I run my business. If one person gets away with an infraction, that will only encourage others to be lax, show up late, step over the line, and become too deeply intimate with their customers. I might be an asshole about the rules, but this isn’t a business that tolerates the undisciplined.
Well, it does, but not in establishments like mine. More than once, I’ve advised an employee to find some backwoods stripper bar if she wants to act like a sloppy slut.
Here, we practice discretion, which requires discipline. It takes discipline to properly serve customers, as well. Taking them to their breaking point and beyond without actually breaking them.
No one can ever say I don’t treat my employees well. I’m not that much of an asshole. All things considered. I’ve even practiced generosity with Rowan. I’ll barely make a profit once her debt’s clear.
Instead, I want her to stop working. I don’t want him to put his hands on her, though I’m sure that’s already happened. He’s probably marring her unblemished skin as I’m sitting here. The thought makes me sick.
What sort of hypocrite would I be if I turned my back on the rules I’ve driven into the skulls of everyone who’s ever stepped through my door?
Do I care?
I’m out of my chair and in the hall before there’s time to convince myself what a completely fucked-up idea this is. Maybe the biggest mistake I’ve ever made. Unfortunately, that’s not enough to stop me from taking the back stairs straight to Hell.
The bouncers waiting in front of the doors lining both sides of the long hallway stand a little straighter when they see me coming. This is hardly my first visit, but I don’t make a point of visiting Hell often. Special occasions come up every now and then, but for the most part, I don’t mix with the fucked-up kinks we indulge down here.
Even I have limits when it comes to what I can stomach.
Glen’s room sits at the end of the hall, furthest from the stairs. I eyeball the pair guarding the room, both of whom stand with hands folded in front of them, their backs to the wall. “I’m going in there.”
